


All Gone (Well Done)

by slappedq



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Casual Sex, Cris Doesn't Recognize His Feelings Until He Does, Dubious Consent, M/M, Pining, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-05-14 17:05:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5751181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slappedq/pseuds/slappedq
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He does the best he can at the moment; he pretends.</p>
<p>Spreads his hands at the referee and pretends that it was an accident.</p>
<p>Blanks his face (because he can't steel his pounding heart) and pretends that doesn't want to punch the snarling Alves in front of him.</p>
<p>Pretends that he is endlessly frustrated by the loss, not the overwhelming urge to push Leo back on the ground.</p>
<p>Pretends that he doesn't want to hear Leo to gasp like that again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Gone (Well Done)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hpdm4ever](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hpdm4ever/gifts).



> 1) I'm so, deeply sorry if I haven't answered to the comments or managed to read/comment everything I wanted to. I know that I'm a miserable excuse for a rational human being.
> 
> 2) This fic starts after Leo's injury in this season, just so you won't be confused.
> 
> 3) And the dubious consent warning is because Leo isn't complitely willing the whole time. I didn't tag it as a rape, but, you know - be warned!
> 
> 4) I just CAN'T make Barca lose, I love them too much, sorry!

_Before I met you_

_I never knew that my heart could love so hard_

_Never knew that I could be broken in so many ways_

 

+

 

Cristiano doesn't know what leads to the fact that he is in the same party as Messi. Or actually he does. It all starts, like everything stupid does, with Isco.

"Come oooon."

Cristiano rolls his eyes.

"You cannot _not_ to come," Isco whines.

"I can. Easily," Cristiano shrugs. "Like this." Isco makes an overdramatic gesture with his hands.

The party where Isco is trying to lure him is thrown by some of James' friends. A private party.

"Everybody will come."

"Yeah. Everybody but me." It’s not that Cristiano doesn't like partying like everybody else but he’s just not on the mood. Not the slightest.

"It'll be rude if you don't come."

“You know what else is rude?” Cristiano mockingly smiles before his eyes dilute, “If I punch you in the face.” His words don’t seem to have any effect on the other man.

"Come on Cris, don't be such an ass. A party pooper. An old man. Cris. Cris. Cris. Cris-,"

Jesus, the man can be stubborn. "Okay, fine! I'm coming but Jesus fucking Christ, _shut up_." Cristiano pushes the other man off, not really as annoyed as he pretends to be.

Isco plasters one wide ass smile on his face. "Yeah! I promise you won't regret it."

 

+

 

Cristiano _so_ regrets it.

The party is great, no; he isn’t saying that. There's many familiar faces around and it’s all relaxed and the booze is flowing. He is just still not in the mood. He downs a few electric blue shots that are handed to him anyway.

And a few beers.

And one more of those neon colored shots.

And okay, he’s more drunk than he likes to admit. So it seems a good idea at the time to take a cab and go to visit another home party across the city. He definitely isn’t resisting as Karim tugs him along.

He isn’t sure where he ends, doesn't even care. The night feels so fucking endless.

But as soon as he steps inside, he halts. Jordi Alba, from Barcelona, sitting on the coffee table, smile on his lips and one of those cheesy red cups on his hand. And close by, in the mass of people, are also Macherano and Suarez.

Cristiano doesn't have anything against them, but hell, he hopes that he didn’t just crash in middle of some culé party.

”Hey!” someone tugs his sleeve. “Look who’s here!” He turns to see Pipita smiling next to him, all white teeth and drunken eyes.

Cristiano smirks, clapping his old teammate to the back. “You look familiar,” he jokes.

“What are you doing here?” Pipita asks, sipping his drink.

Cristiano lifts his brows. “Honestly? I have no idea. I don’t even know if we’re still in Madrid. Or what are they doing here,” he nods subtly to the direction of the Barca players. 

"What? _They?_ Do they bother you?" Pipita slurs a little, amused.

"Easy for you to say, half of your national team are culés."

Pipita rolls his eyes. "Not that many..." he mumbles. “And by the way, this is Sophie’s house.” Cristiano doesn’t know who the hell is Sophie and doesn’t actually bother listening Higuain as he talks about her.

Just gulps down the last of his beers and takes another.

 

+

 

For his defense, he's pretty drunk when he stumbles to the dimly lit room, searching for James.

What he finds instead of his teammate is Messi sitting on Pique's lap, straddling him. They are on the bed, talking with low, drunken voices.

Cristiano feels like he is invading something private. Hell, he would probably be more comfortable walking into someone having sex.

Pique is leaning back, one hand on Messi's hip and other one mussing the smaller man's hair. Their faces are close as they talk. Slow. Drunkenly. Cristiano can barely make out a few words of it.

He should just back off, he knows this, rationally. He doesn't have any reason to stay there, next to the door, watch them and feel that annoying bang of loneliness.

But he stays. God doesn’t know why the fuck, but he stays.

His eyes are drawn to the small Argentine; to the portion of his face what he can see. To his hazy eyes and the small, happy smile. Pique’s hands are constantly touching the smaller man – caressing his sides and thighs, occasionally brushing over his cheek.

But what is bizarre in the picture is that nothing of it seems sexual. It isn’t that kind of touching.

Their eyes hold different kind of love.

Suddenly Messi’s laugh bubbles up and so does Pique’s mocking voice, “– sure, Leo, that’s what it does –,” and it snaps Cristiano from his haze.

_What the fuck is he doing?_

"I need more shots!" Pique says and stands up. Messi lets out a small noise and clings to the Spaniard but Pique has a good grip under his thighs. He drops smaller man back on the bed. "Do you want anything?"

He bounces for a second, "Yeah. Yeah, those green things with, uh...what were they?"

Pique says something back, something that Cristiano doesn't catch and suddenly he is face to face with the tall Spaniard.

Okay. _Awkward._

But Pique just smirks and pats him on the shoulder. "Isn't any shots here, mate," and then pushes past him. Just like that. Doesn't even blink.

Cristiano swallows and watches him go. He doesn't get to turn around fast enough before a smaller body bumps into him.

Cristiano’s hands fly out reflexively to steady out.

"Oh...sorry," Messi mumbles, hands gripping on Cristiano’s shirt as he stedies himself.

"It's okay," Cristiano says, hands still on the smaller man to keep them both upright. Messi’s eyes are hazy and his gaze slow as it sweeps over Cristiano.

“Sorry,” Messi says again, little quieter. Then he’s tries to walk forward again but trips to his own legs and Cristiano would laugh because of the _pure irony_ of it if he wasn’t so out of the whole situation.

So Cristiano just catches him again by his biceps and pulls him up. Against his own chest. Which – as he soon realizes – is a mistake.

Messi blinks up at him, eyes dark and face flushed, and looks down again when he meets Cristiano’s gaze.

“Thanks,” he says.

Cristiano feels like his brains are sucked out, and stuffed full of cotton. “Yeah, no problem,” he finally says back. His fingertips are tingling and he has no idea why.

He lets go of Messi and watches him go, too. The knee prop around his right knee is almost invisible against his black jeans. His crutches are forgotten on the floor, next to the bed.

Cristiano takes a deep breath and blows it out.

Afterwards he blames the alcohol for his pounding heart.

 

+

 

Cristiano doesn’t forget what happened – especially doesn’t forget how it made him feel – but he decides to ignore it. Pushes it to the dark corners of his mind.

And life goes on.

He sees him at Camp Nou a few weeks later.

He isn’t playing yet but is sitting on the side, knuckles white around his crutches. His face is pale against the collar of his navy blue jacket.

When the game is over Cristiano walks through the pitch, mindlessly shaking hands. The scene of Messi laughing and Neymar lifting him up catches his attention but he turns his eyes soon away. He doesn’t want to be caught of staring. Doesn’t want anyone to see his emotions.

But he looks again anyway, _because hey_ , ignoring them would be just plain rude.

Messi is on the ground again. Neymar is speaking next to him but the Argentinian's eyes are turned to Cristiano. Messi gives him a small smile.

Cristiano blinks. The soft, brown eyes are already elsewhere when he decides to smile back.

 

+

 

He sees Messi again in one of the corridors about twenty minutes after the game.

He talking to the phone with a smooth voice, left foot tapping a steady rhythm against the floor, gaze down. “Yeah, it’s better. They are probably letting me play in the next game. Or put me on a bench, I don’t know for sure–,”

Cristiano fixes his hold of his training bag, looks to the both ends of the corridor. Empty. Then he looks back at Messi.

The smaller man still hasn’t noticed him.

Cristiano considers of leaving; _what the hell does he even have to say to him?_ He should just save them both from an awkward conversation.

But the decision is takes away from him as Messi ends his call and his dark eyes flicker up.

He opens his mouth, but closes it right away. Cristiano cocks up one eyebrow. He sure as hell knows how to act unaffected, even though he doesn’t feel like it.

“I know that I’m not supposed to be here, I just wanted to have this conversation in peace.” Messi starts explaining, tucking his phone to his pocket.

“Yeah. I don’t mind.” Messi gives a small smile and turns to take his crutches from where they are leaning against the wall. Cristiano notices that he doesn’t use them. His limp is barely noticeable as he walks but it's probably just because of the uncomfortable knee prop.

"Shouldn’t you be using them?” Cristiano asks.

Messi looks up, surprised. “Well technically, yeah. But it just feels useless at this point. I’m okay. It’s just a formality now. I'm already training and all, they’re just overprotective,” he confesses with a quiet, smooth voice, that Cristiano finds very pleasurable to listen.

“So your knee is better now?”

Messi nods.

“Good. I’ve kind of missed you here,” Cristiano’s lips tug up to a soft smile, “A good competition.”

He finds it alarmingly satisfying to see Messi’s cheeks heat up, his eyes suddenly looking down instead of Cristiano.

“I’m sure that there’s a great competition even without me,” he says. Cristiano wants to brush his knuckles against the blushed cheeks and lift his chin so he can look at his eyes. Wants to see all of the effect he is having on the younger man.

"Yeah, maybe. But it isn’t same,” he says and takes a step closer.

It has the impact he had hoped; Messi looks up, blinks up at Cristiano under his black lashes. He is obviously lost of words, cheeks getting a deeper shade. Cristiano smirks.

“I need to get going,” he says and takes another careful step closer, casually brushing his hand against Messi’s shoulder. “Zidane will have my head if he hears I’ve been conspiring with Messi,” he jokes.

He steps away, a smile still on his lips.

“Leo.”

Cristiano turns around.

“Call me Leo.”

 

+

 

_Here's the pride before the fall_

_Oh, your eyes they show it all_

 

 

+

 

"But _why?_ " Pique ask, sounding both amused and worried.

Cristiano shrugs and curses himself for not coming up with any excuses before this.

"Oh no," Pique laughs at him, but it's not all fun and games anymore. Maybe he should've asked someone else.

"I'm not giving you Leo's number if you don't have any good reason behind it." He definitely should've asked someone else.

“I would really like to ask his opinion about one thing," Cristiano says and cringes inwardly.

Pique leans back, arms crossed, that stupid mocking smile still plastered on his face. "Yeah? About what?"

Cristiano holds his gaze. "About the game."

"Uh-uh," Pique hums. "Care to ask me first? I was there too, you know. Or is it more...private?" _He doesn’t know, of course he doesn’t know anything; he’s just trying to mess with me._

But hell, this was a stupid idea anyway. "You know what, never mind. It isn’t that important."

He turns to leave but is stopped by a hand on his shoulder. "Wait – just... _wait_." Pique sighs and runs a hand through his hair.

Cristiano doesn't say anything, just waits for the other man to continue.

"I'm always been the one to protect him, you need to understand that," Pique continues with a lower tone. His smile is long gone, face suddenly serious.

Cristiano nods. Pique studies him one more second, eyes narrowed.

"Phone," he says then.

Cristiano blinks and raises one eyebrows.

"Your phone," Pique repeats, holding out his hand.

"Oh! Yeah, sure..." Cristiano digs out his iPhone, "Here." Pique taps the number there with his long spider fingers, and Cristiano barely lets out a breath, afraid that the other man will change his mind. Then his phone is handed back to him.

"Thanks," he says and smiles.

Pique worries his lower lip, his ocean blue eyes boring into Cristiano’s. "Don't make me regret this."

He checks the number on the car, only a little suspicious that Pique gave him the wrong number.

He stares at the ' _Leo_ ' on his screen for a little too long time. Then throws his phone to the next seat and sighs.

_Why the fuck did he do this?_

He convinces himself that he doesn’t want to call Leo, but he doesn't delete the number either.

 

+

 

Cristiano isn’t surprised – only a little disappointed – when Leo wins the titles of the best forward and the best player of La Liga.

He watches the Argentinian walk through the people with the two awards in his hands. His suit choices are definitely getting better; the black suit fits his lithe form perfectly, hugging around the curve of his waist and emphasizing the round ass.

He is all smile and dimples, eyes bright.

Cristiano meant to stay away but maybe his self control is a little rusty.

“Congratulations,” he says as he smoothly grips Leo’s bicep, pulling him through the crowd. “For the _best forward_.” He fails to keep his tone completely free from the underlying hint of bitterness.

Leo follows him, not even trying to get out of Cristiano’s hold.

The bathroom where he leads them is probably even more fancy than his own. The shiny white surfaces are simple with golden decorations.

He lets go of Leo’s arm and steps to the sink; washes his hands and throws a little water on his face. When he turns around Leo is still standing on the same spot, hands fiddling with the sleeves of his suit. He looks small and kind of lost.

It pulls out something predatory inside of Cristiano.

“What are we doing here?”

Cristiano dries his hands and turns around. “I wanted to congratulate you.”

“You already did,” Leo says.

Cristiano walks past Leo to shut the door all the way. The loud click of the lock seems to set electricity in the air. “Not properly. I want to give you something you’ll remember.”

Leo looks extremely suspicious and well, Cristiano can’t blame him.

“Come on, don’t look like that,” he smiles. “Come here.”

He can see Leo hesitating, sees how his eyes flicker to the door and back to Cristiano. Maybe it’s a sign of that he wants to leave. Maybe it’s a fear that someone will catch them in a compromising position. He takes a few shy steps towards Cristiano, stops when he is still a good few steps away.

Cristiano sighs and smiles gently. He’s glad that the smaller man doesn’t pull away when he reaches him and tugs him closer.

“Good,” Cristiano says under his breath. The fire in his stomach is hard to ignore. “Now, take off your jacket.”

A few lines appear on Leo’s forehead as he frowns. “What?” He is playing with the hem of his sleeve again. A nervous habit. “Why?”

“Just do it.” Cristiano says, voice low and authorative. Leo looks up at him, then to his left side – and starts to shrug his black jacket away.

A feel of control runs through Cristiano. This is what he is good at, this is the position he loves to be in. He loves being in charge.

When Leo’s jacket is off, Cristiano takes it from him and puts it away. He can feel Leo following his every move, calculating him.

“Close your eyes.”

And Leo does. This time without even questioning it.

Cristiano takes in the details of his face; the dark lashes fanning his pale cheeks, slightly furrowed brows, and the curve of his upper lip.

He takes a hold of Leo’s waist and starts to push him backwards, but that's when his eyes flutter wide open.

Cristiano leans a little closer and mutters, “Keep them closed.”

The dark brown eyes blink once before falling shut again and Cristiano continues to walk him backwards until Leo’s lower back hits the sink. Cristiano can see his shoulders tense even more, probably feeling trapped.

“Just relax,” he says and lets his hands caress up and down Leo’s side. “Relax.” Leo’s shoulders doesn’t lose any of their stiffness, not that he really expected it.

He bends down a little, to drag his nose from the base of his neck to his jaw. Leo shudders under him, but stays put, eyes still closed.

Cristiano’s hands are trembling so he presses them harder against Leo’s sides. _He wants._ He wants so fucking badly. Maybe this is good after all. To get it off his system.

“Tell me, Leo, have you ever been fucked?” he rasps out quietly.

Leo freezes.

He doesn’t answer right away but Cristiano waits patiently. He keeps his touch very light, the tip of his nose hovering next to Leo’s ear to make sure that he knows that Cristiano is waiting for an answer.

“Why? Maybe. Why do you ask?” Leo breathes the words out very quickly.

“ _Oh_. So you have.”

Leo turns his head to the side, away from Cristiano, obviously uncomfortable. Cristiano just smirks and moves with him, licking a wet stripe on his neck, and then biting in gently.

“Did it feel good? To be so full?” he continues, casually.

It seems to be the last straw because Leo’s eyes flash open, dark and bright. Cristiano can’t keep the smirk off his face.

Leo looks at him, nostrils flaring, mouth a firm line. He is trying to read him, but Cristiano knows the quality of his own poker face. When Leo doesn’t speak he starts to slowly tug the shirt off from the younger man’s pants.

Leo’s hands come to stop him. “Why are you asking?” he whispers.

Cristiano lifts his gaze and licks his lips. “Maybe I am just curious.” Leo’s touch feels hot where his fingers are curled around Cristiano’s wrists.

Neither of them moves.

Until one of the does.

Surprisingly, it’s Leo who kisses him first. A soft, dry press of lips against his and Cristiano – he snaps. He had been on the edge so long, on the edge of his control.

Leo lets out a gasp when Cristiano presses him harder against the sink, licking Leo’s mouth open, kissing him with wet mouth and tongue. He swallows every quiet whine and moan Leo makes as he roughly strips the Argentinian from his shirt.

He pulls away from the warm mouth only to lift Leo to sit next to the sink.

His pulse is thrumming in his ears, firing up in his veins.

Leo feels and sounds even better he has imagined. And fuck, Cristiano didn’t expect him to be so _enthusiastic_ , chasing Cristiano’s lips with his own, arching to his touch.

When Leo’s upper body is completely bare, Cristiano turns to his pants, fumbling with the belt before dragging the expensive material down as Leo lifts his hips. They get tangled to his ankles. Cristiano lets them.

He feels a little lightheaded. This could have ended so differently.

He goes for Leo’s throat, taking a deep breath of his scent through his nose. Leo stretches his neck – little tilt of head – and Cristiano really, _really_ can’t resist such an open invitation.

Leo is all hard muscles under a soft skin, yet he feels so small under Cristiano’s hands.

He moves his hands all over Leo’s body as he nibs and kisses his throat. He shouldn’t leave marks but he bites down on the pale skin anyway, harder than he intends. _Harder than he should_.

The broken noise that Leo makes in his throat is barely audible, but it shatters something inside of Cristiano.

He breaks away from the kiss, " _Shit, shit, shit..._ "

Leo looks up at him, licking his wet, parted lips. Cristiano can’t look down in those wide, brown eyes without feeling like someone stole his lungs and he has forgot how to breathe.

He can’t recall when everything left his control so completely. Not control of the situation but control of himself.

Leo bites his already raw lips and hops down. He is retreating back into himself, hands curled protectively around his middle, not looking at Cristiano anymore. _Probably thinking that Cristiano wants to stop_ , he realizes.

He takes the shirt away from Leo’s hands, catching his wrists as he bends down to kiss him again. But Leo doesn’t melt against him again, just hesitantly kisses back.

Cristiano curses himself for breaking the moment.

“I can’t remember you answering my question,” he murmurs against his lips.

The fire is pooling down on his stomach, making his jeans feel too tight. He feels like before the game – all that loaded energy sizzling inside of him, urging him to run – or in this case; to fuck.

“I did,” Leo says in the kiss, little more invested again.

Cristiano licks Leo’s lower lip before he pulls away. “Yeah, that. But to my other question.” He doesn’t give Leo any warning when he presses the heel of his palm against Leo’s swollen cock that is obvious against his black briefs.

The younger man sucks in a sharp breath, hands coming up to grip Cristiano’s arms.

Shit.

Cristiano didn't mean to get this far. Just meant to make out a little. He thought that this would be a good idea, to get _this stupid, raw need_ out of his chest. Thought that the fire would have faded out by now, after he got a little taste.

But no. If anything, it burns only brighter.

_He’s so screwed._

He drops to his knees, hands on Leo’s hips to keep him still. He traces the line of Leo’s cock with his thumb, loves to hear the hitch on the man’s breath above him.

“You know, I was deadly serious about my promise to congratulate you. Thoroughly.”

Leo doesn’t stop him when he rips his boxers down too, only makes a choked sound when Cristiano swallows him down. Hands come down to take a hold of Cristiano’s well styled hair, mussing it up with a tight grip that feels on his scalp. He doesn’t mind, just curls his other hand around the base of Leo’s cock and hollows his cheeks and sucks.

“Ohhh, oh God – Cris. Fuck. _Wait_ -,” Leo speaks up, urgently. Cristiano can tell that he is holding back the need move his hips.

He flattens his tongue against the silky underside of Leo’s cock, rolls it around a bit around the head before pulling off with one, hard suck. Leo fingers tighten almost painfully on his hair.

“What?” Cristiano asks, blinking up at Leo’s flushed face. “You want something more?”

“No,” Leo swallows, “ _No_ , I –,”

“You feeling empty?” he rasps out, carefully watching Leo’s reaction. The widening pupils and gaping mouth.

“No,” Leo says again, and okay, it’s probably easiest answer to everything.

It’s just that Cristiano isn’t buying it.

“You do, _don’t you_ ,” he continues, “You want it so bad it’s hard for you stay still. You want to be split in two, want to feel me spreading you open in the best way possible, want me to take you apart so badly that nobody else can put you together again.” The filter from his brain to mouth must be seriously damaged because he didn’t mean to say any of that.

But he can’t deny it, because he wants it. Wants to bend the little Argentine over the sink and pound that pretty ass senseless.

Leo is frozen, staring down at him with shock and lust filled eyes.

Cristiano stands up and kisses Leo, pushing him against the sink again. “Turn around,” he grunts, already maneuvering him around, so his back is against Cristiano’s chest.

Leo grips the edge of the sink with white knuckles, breathing heavily through his bruised lips.

Cristiano feels out of breath too, smelling Leo's shampoo as he presses his nose against the dark hair.

He stares the reflection of Leo and himself on the mirror. "Do you want this?" he ask quietly. _Please, please do want this_.

Leo meets his eyes via mirror and he looks both unsure and challenging, like he dares him to back off. To see if Cristiano is serious or not.

"Trust me, Leo," he says and drops a kiss on his neck. Then to his shoulder. And on the side of his throat. "I can make you feel so good, I promise."

Leo’s head drops down and Cristiano can’t see his eyes anymore – can’t tell if it's yes or not. But it isn’t a no either so he drops back on his knees, hands sliding from Leo’s hips to the round globes of his ass.

He cups them in his hands, squeezing and rolling the firm, smooth flesh. Fuck, they're just perfect. Leo lets out a sigh, bending a little over. Cristiano mentally pats himself on the back, spreading the cheeks as much as he can.

Leo visibly tenses at that but Cristiano ignores it. Just smirks predatorily and licks a flat stripe just on top of Leo’s pink entrance.

Leo jerks like he’s electrocuted, a small noise escaping from his lungs.

“Stop. Don’t do that, _don’t_ –,” but Cristiano licks down again, this time letting the tip of his tongue to catch Leo’s tight rim.

Leo tries to yank away but he doesn’t have any place to go, between the sink and Cristiano. Can't even properly move his legs from where they are trapped in his suit pants.

“Stop, stop, stop, stop–,“ the words rush feverishly past Leo's lips and if Cristiano’s mouth wasn't occupied at the moment, he'd tell him to calm down. Tell him _quit lying yourself_. Because Leo will like it, Cristiano knows that he will. If he just gives it a change.

He tightens his hold on Leo's hips, grip bruising against his hipbones. He lets his tongue to swipe over a few more times, salivating the entrance, making it as wet as he can.

Leo's begging is getting quieter, less frantic, but it still hasn't stopped. It's the last, quiet " _don't_ " that makes something in Cristiano’s chest tighten, but he ignores it – like every other feeling he currently has – and slides the tip of his tongue inside.

Leo cries out with a hoarse voice, his spine arching.

And Jesus, he's hot inside. _Burning hot and incredibly tight._ Cristiano closes his lips around the rim and plunges a little deeper, fucking Leo with a small thrust of his tongue, opening him up.

It sounds a little like sobs, then; the quiet gasps of air that Leo is taking.

Cristiano is seriously considering of stopping but then Leo starts to roll his hips back. To push against his tongue to get it deeper. There's a quiet, tale telling thump, and Cristiano realizes that Leo's head has fell against the mirror.

When he is sure that Leo won't try to get away, he moves his hands from Leo's hips to his ass again, gropes and massages the flesh, then spreads him apart again. It lets him thrust his tongue even deeper.

And then he really, really gets into it.

Leo keeps making soft noises above him, keeps squirming in his hold but this time because of pleasure. The Argentinian has got his rhythm right too, matching the move of his hips to the thrusts of Cristiano’s tongue.

Finally he pulls out, licking the saliva from his lips. Then he licks over the slick entrance once more, feeling Leo opening up easily now.

He stands up, ignoring the ache on his knees. Leo tries to get up too, from where he is bent over the sink, but Cristiano pushes him back. "We're not done yet," he says quietly.

There's a small, stylish collection of soaps and lotions next to them and Cristiano is glad that he doesn't have to go just with the saliva. He would, _oh he definitely would if he had to_ ; he wouldn't be able to stop now. But it's never the best option. He coats is fingers with the makeshift lube.

He can see only a portion of Leo's face through the mirror where his forehead is pressed. Can see his hot breath making a patch of fume on the glass every time he breathes out.

"When is the last time you did this?" Cristiano asks and fails to keep his voice completely even. He traces the pad of his fingers against Leo's slick rim.

The Argentinian swallows and turns his head so Cristiano can’t see his eyes. There's something vulnerable in way he shrugs and makes a no vague noise in his throat.

_Been a while, then._

Was expected, really, considering of how tight he was.

Cristiano leans forward, nosing against Leo's bare shoulder. "Don't worry, I go slowly," he murmurs against his skin.

"Okay," Leo rasps out. It's the only confirmation Cristiano has got him from a while, so he considers it a win as he presses the tip of his finger inside.

Leo stops breathing and goes completely still. Doesn't pull away or tell Cris to stop, but –

"You need to relax," Cristiano says.

There's flash of something harsh in Leo's eyes and; "You go and _relax_ like this."

Cristiano huffs out a laugh. "I'll keep that in mind," he whispers against the shell of his ear. And then slides his finger all the way in, to the last knuckle.

Leo's lets out a breathless moan, mouth falling open.

Cristiano’s hands are starting to shake again.

"I – I really think that you should move now," Leo swallows after half of a second.

Cris smiles and licks his lips. "Pushy little thing, aren’t you?"

Leo doesn't answer but his eyes flutter shut as Cristiano starts to move his finger, dragging against Leo's hot insides when he pulls out and back in again.

"Would you like to get fucked like this? Or would you rather ride my cock?" Cristiano asks, partly because he wants Leo to relax more, partly because that's _all he can think about_. How hot and tight and absolutely _perfect_ Leo would feel around him.

Leo stays silent. Cristiano expects him to, but feels smug when Leo parts his thighs and cants his hips up even more.

He crooks his finger, searching. He knows _what_ to look for, knows _where_ to find it. It's just been a while...

"You would ride me so well, wouldn't you? I bet that you could ride me for hours until your legs give out," he continues, little breathlessly. "Makes me wonder though... have you ever done that?" he leans closer, lowers his voice, "–or do you always bend over like this?"

He knows it on the second he finds it.

The way Leo's whole body arches when he presses his finger against it.

Then he pulls away, entirely. Pours a little more lotion and massages the pink, puffy rim with two fingers now.

Leo's eyes are clouded. His hands are fumbling, trying to get a good grip from the edge of the sink as he pushes his ass back on Cristiano’s fingers. "Again," he breathes out, demanding, and Cristiano doesn't intend to keep him waiting.

The younger man is still like a vice around his two fingers, no matter how relaxed he is now.

"We should do this again. After the game," Cristiano says, and then swallows. He should be worried how easily the words flow out of him at the moment. And even more worried about the fact that he means them.

He scissors his fingers, stretching Leo open as much as possible before he aims for the prostate again and soaks in the smaller man's moans. Leo pushes a little backwards, moves his right hand down to touch himself. Cristiano watches it with a dry throat.

He can't see the grip Leo is having, but he can see the rhythm from the pace of his arm. It's slow and even, matched with the thrusts of Cristiano’s fingers.

Cristiano spreads his palm across Leo's lower stomach, feels the muscles working underneath the skin. By now, he really has to focus on keeping the rhythm with his fingers.

"Here, _let me_ ," he whispers out, moving his hand down and closing his fingers around Leo's.

But Leo doesn't stop right away. "Let me," Cristiano repeats and even still the Argentinian strokes a couple more times before he letting him take over.

Cristiano feels like he's on the breaking point already. Wants badly to touch himself – _wants Leo to touch him_ – wants to take his fingers out and push into that slick heat himself.

But he won’t. He knows that he can't. Two fingers just are not enough to prep Leo for him.

But he needs something ( _now, before he cracks_ ), needs friction, so he starts moving his hips against Leo, pressing his hard cock against one, plump ass cheek as he takes Leo apart.

He keeps the rhythm of his fingers same, but now goes for the prostate more often than not. Also touches Leo's cock with the same, slow pace. Leo is so hard trying to keep his voice down, but can't keep all of the low moans from coming deep from his chest.

Cristiano would love to see how much Leo can take, how much before he bursts.

"Leo," he whispers roughly and presses the two of his fingers against the pleasure spot inside him. Doesn't pull away, doesn't keep just occasionally brushing it, _no_. Massages hard against it.

Leo's legs buckle under him, only Cristiano and his own shaky grip of the sink keeping him upright as his mouth falls open and a broken cry gets out.

Leo is shaking by now, leaning heavily against the sink, moaning breathlessly. Cristiano slides his thumb over Leo's slit, spreading the pre-come. He is embarrassingly close himself.

"Come for me," he breathes out and Leo does.

Coats Cristiano's hand with white, sticky fluid and tightens impossibly around his fingers.

There's a weird hum in Cristiano’s ears, blocking away Leo's hard breathing. He watches the flush on Leo's neck, the sweat glistening on his skin.

"Ow, ow, _ow_ –," Leo is trying to pull away, arms shaking with the strain. "Hurts."

Cristiano realizes that he's still pressing his fingers hard inside of Leo. He slides them out, kisses an apology on Leo's shoulder.

He pries Leo's cheeks apart again, watches his hole glisten in the light of bathroom. There are a few dark blotches on his skin – fingerprints – stark against the pale skin.

He could fuck him now.

Leo is all loose limbed and relaxed under him, high from the pheromones, leaning over the sink and barely aware of all the touching.

Cristiano starts to fumble with his belt, opening his pants when–

A sharp knock on the door startles them both. "You know, this isn't a private bathroom," somebody's muffled voice comes from the other side.

Cristiano isn't far away from snapping the man to use another, but Leo is already up on his shaky legs, pulling up his pants.

And his change flies past him faster than he can see.

He grits his teeth together, buckles up his belt.

Maybe it's karma. Except that Cristiano doesn't believe in shit like that.

 

+

 

He swallows down four drinks afterwards, and maybe it's just his imagination, but it feels like the taste of Leo doesn't fade.

 

+

 

_Been trying to sell myself another lie_

_I’ve already bought too many_

 

+

 

He doesn't sleep very well on the next night.

He would love to pretend that he doesn't know what the cause is. Or that it doesn't really matter.

He would love to lie to himself until he believes it. _Fake it 'till you make it._

But when he scrolls through the news on his phone on the next morning, seeing picture of familiar dark eyes and adorable smile in the cover of Mundo, he knows that he can't.

 

+

 

Weeks pass by but the harsh feeling of someone squeezing around his ribs isn't any easier when he sees him again.

They're at Bernabeu this time.

Leo is standing there on the pitch – knee props and crutches long forgotten – with his long sleeves tugged into paws, lower lip sucked between his teeth and frown on his face.

So focused on the ball, on the game, that he doesn't notice eyes on him.

But of course, there are thousands of eyes on him now.

He can't afford to be thrown off by Cristiano.

 

+

 

It’s 4-1 for Barcelona and 4 minutes left when Cristiano tackles him down and suddenly it's a whirl of white and blue and deep purple. Soon he can't see Leo behind all the people anymore.

So he grits his teeth together and does the best he can at the moment; he pretends.

He pretends as the hell breaks loose.

Spreads his hands at the referee and pretends that it was an accident.

Blanks his face ( _because he can't steel his pounding heart_ ) and pretends that doesn't want to punch the snarling Alves in front of him.

Pretends that he is endlessly frustrated by the loss, not the overwhelming urge to push Leo back on the ground.

Pretends that he doesn't want to hear Leo to gasp like that again.

 

+

 

He takes a long, hot shower after that game.

Maybe wraps his hand around himself.

Maybe presses his forehead against the tiles as he jacks off.

Maybe thinks of a certain Argentinian under him like on the pitch.

_Maybe._

 

+

 

He is the last one to leave.

It's dark and quiet when Cristiano steps on the parking lot, digging his keys from the bottom of his bag. He hears a cough on his left and stops dead on his tracks, his training bag flinging from his shoulder, keys on the other hand.

"Would you lend an old man a hand, por favor?" A wrinkled, scrawny man has a cigarette between his thin lips, a hand holding a lighter.

"Sure," Cristiano steps in and helps, although little reluctantly.

The man reeks of smoke, the smell of it grimed on his custom made suit. A sheet of sweat covers his forehead and nose and his breath is wheezing with every breath.

"Thank you. It's been a hell of a lot harder to light these after I got rheumatisms."

_And it'll be lot harder after you get a lung cancer and die_ , Cristiano thinks bitterly. "Yeah, I believe."

The man takes a long intake and then blows the smoke out. Cristiano turns on his heels, but is stopped again. "You play here, son?" His accent is thick, a little weird.

Cristiano turns enough to nod.

"Hm..." the man takes another breath, "Not a man of many words? You know my hearing isn't damaged, thank you very much. I can hear your steps clear as day."

That's only when Cristiano notices the white cane, leaning against the man's thigh. _Oh_. So the black glasses weren't just for style. "Yes, I play here."

"You any good?" The man asks.

"You could say that."

"Good, good... I bet a lot of money on your team."

Cristiano finds it extremely odd that a man who bets on a team doesn't recognize the players – _blind or not_ – or that he's just allowed to hang on the private parking area. The man surely is bigger than he lets on. Or just completely crazy.

"Something wrong, boy? Your anxiety is stinking all the way here." Cristiano tenses up. _Boy_. He's 30.

"I'm okay."

"Is it injuries? Love trouble?" It's _very, very annoying_. That little, knowing smile.

"I'm perfect, thanks for asking," Cristiano grits between his teeth.

"I'm sure." The man takes a last suck and dumps his cigarette to the ground. Then he takes another from his silvery pocket case with his trembling fingers, offering the lighter to Cristiano again. Cristiano doesn't know why he is still standing there.

He lights the next one nevertheless.

"I'm sorry if she wasn’t right for you," the old man continues, sounding actually very sincere.

Seriously. _Who the fuck is this man?_

Anger flares behind Cristiano’s eyes. His chest feels raw. "Who said that," he snaps before he can hold his tongue.

The man's eyebrows shot up behind his dark glasses. "Oh. So you're still fighting for her?"

Cristiano sighs keeps his mouth shut. He shouldn't have said anything on the first place. He should just kept walking.

"Can I give you an advice?"

Cristiano is very tempted to say no. “I’m pretty sure that that game has changed since 1900,” he bites back instead.

"The _game_?" the man chuckles and takes a breath from his cigarette. "Well, if you want to call it that. Yes, the game has been same since forever. The cards are just slightly different."

Okay, _that's enough_ , thank you. Cristiano is about to start walking away.

"Effort. That's still what turns people on."

Cristiano isn't sure if he's comfortable of talking about turning someone on with this strange, old man.

"Attention. Assurance. _Show that you care_ , because you can't win someone's with your looks alone. No offence son, I'm sure that you're very handsome, but that alone will get you only shallow love, if love at all. Admiration, innovation, lust maybe. And those are great things, too, I'm not saying otherwise, if those are what you seek."

Cristiano is only slightly irritated that this sick, old man that comes from nowhere to give him life advises. He has done well in life.

I mean, look where he is.

He clears his throat, forces his voice steady. "You seem to talk from an experience."

The man smiles even wider. "Son, every advice comes from an experience."

 

+

 

It turns out that the old man in the parking lot was Ramos' grandfather.

Cristiano doesn't know if he should be surprised or not.

 

+

 

The press conference for FIFA really afflicts Cristiano. He is sitting there with Leo and Neymar since they’re all nominees for the Ballon d'Or.

He listens there as Leo talks with his smooth, low voice. Listens as Neymar praises him to the heavens. Answers to his own questions while he tries not to stare the man in the middle.

That shy little smile that sometimes turns into a quiet laughter, lighting up his eyes. Hands constantly fiddling with the fabric of his jeans, bringing Cristiano’s attention to his spread legs.

And then there are the pictures. Always the pictures.

And of course they position Leo in the middle.

“Okay! Thank you, that’s it.” The last flash goes off and Cristiano's hand slips from Leo’s waist.

 

+

 

The first time he fucks Leo is after El Clásico.

They're still sweaty from the game when Cristiano pulls Leo into one useless, empty dressing room. Leo's hair is plastered to his forehead and Cristiano’s shirt is clinging to his back and their kisses taste like salt.

Their jerseys stay on; shorts only fumbled off before Cristiano lifts Leo up and slams him against the lockers.

And fucks him _hard_. Hard enough that it must hurt Leo.

He soaks in every whine and moan Leo makes and pretends that he isn't addicted to them. _To him_.

Leo's sweaty thighs keep slipping from around Cristiano’s waist but they manage to hold it long enough. Long enough for both of them to come.

He doesn't kiss Leo when they're done.

He can't. Afraid the he can't stop if he starts. Afraid that he will say something like ' _I want all of you_ '. He can't even look at Leo, even when he feels that the younger man is clearly expecting it.

He pulls his white shorts up and leaves.

Doesn't look back to see breathless Leo with shorts around his ankles and come dripping down his thighs.

 

+

 

Leo wins the Ballon d'Or.

Expected, really.

 

+

 

The second time he fucks Leo is in the after party of Ballon d'Or Gala.

He is on the couch in of one the empty rooms, his nails digging into Leo’s hipbones as he slowly slides into him. Or actually it’s Leo who’s grinding down at him, working himself down on Cristiano’s cock, taking him deeper and deeper with every roll of his hips.

Cristiano is breathing heavily against Leo’s mouth, bumping their noses together as he steals kisses between their breaths.

Finally Leo starts to lift himself up and slide back down. Cristiano curls his hands firmer against Leo’s hips and pulls him roughly down. Leo’s breathing is coming out in small pants, pushed out of him every time he thrusts inside.

“Fuck, you feel good,” Cristiano groans out. Leo tightens his hold around Cristiano’s neck as he flips them around and presses Leo against the couch.

Leo is breathing hard, squirming a little under Cristiano’s hold.

Cristiano is worried how much he needs this. How much he’s addicted to the feeling of Leo around him, to his touches, to his moans and soft smiles. He has tried things before with other guys. He has considered himself straight with a little curious side, but _hell_ , nothing of it had ever felt like this. Never before he had had this urge to tear someone’s clothes off, push them down like this.

He bites down on Leo’s shoulder when he comes, harder than in a long time.

The hollow feeling creeps back in his chest immediately after Leo limps away from the dim room.

 

+

 

_Stop making the eyes at me_

_I'll stop making the eyes at you_

_And what it is that surprises me_

_Is that I don't really want you to_

 

+

 

Cristiano finds him again, after the next Clásico.

He has just taken a shower, still dripping wet when Cristiano pulls him along into empty corridor. There are eyes on them but Cristiano doesn’t care.

Leo clutches to the towel around his waist, hands fumbling only a little, but still enough for the white and fluffy towel to slip an inch under his sharp hipbones.

It's quickly fixed though and Cristiano lifts his gaze to Leo’s face again. He's so close that he can see the water drops gathering on Leo's collarbones.

"What?" the smaller man asks quietly.

Cristiano lifts his hand to smooth his thumb over Leo’s flushed cheekbone. "It was a good game. Would you like to celebrate?"

The younger man blinks. "We had a draw."

_Yes, Leo, thank you. The point exactly._

Cristiano rolls his eyes, amused huff escaping from his lungs. Then he is pushing Leo backwards – gripping his biceps so he won't fall – fumbling steps until Leo's back hits the wall.

The air leaves Leo's lungs with a gasp but he doesn't have time to draw breath again, because Cristiano’s lips are already on his.

Leo tenses against him, tries to turn his head away. Cristiano pushes down the disappointment and moves his lips on Leo’s neck.

“Wait, wait–,“ Leo’s voice is a strangled, “– _stop!_ ” There’s a sharp push against Cristiano’s breastbone.

Cristiano takes a step backwards but not from the force of the push.

Leo is breathing through his mouth, cheeks flushed. He tilts his head to his side, eyes away from Cristiano, and that’s when he sees them.

The faint purple marks right underside of Leo’s jaw. The small scrapes and marks on the pale skin.

Something tightens in his chest.

Those weren’t from him.

Leo says something but Cristiano doesn’t hear it.

"Who made those?" Cristiano hates how his voice comes out so dry and raspy. Leo's posture changes immediately, shoulders drawing in, confusion radiating from his dark eyes.

Cristiano widens his stance and takes a step forward again, crowding the smaller man further against the wall. Leo squirms in his place, eyes starting to wander away from Cristiano, trying to find an escape route from between the wall and the bigger body. Cristiano finds this extremely irritating. He doesn’t know why, but he does.

"Who?" he repeats.

He wants to have a face to loathe, wants some target to his disappointment and rage. Something else than some blurred face, pressing Leo against the wall like he did, making those marks against that light skin, coaxing deep, breathless sounds from his throat...

"It's none of your business," Leo snaps suddenly, pushing Cristiano away again.

Cristiano doesn’t move again, but Leo still almost gets past him with his fast footballer feet.

Almost.

He takes a firm grip of Leo's biceps and pushes him back against the wall, maybe a little harder than he intends. Leo flinches, wide eyes flying up to find Cristiano.

"Was it Neymar?" he asks. _Very possible. Always close to Leo, all hands and bright smile._ "Pique?" _More unlikely, but Leo just seemed to favor the blue eyed man's lap over anyone else._

Leo just stares the older man with a tight jaw and tense shoulders. “I need to get dressed,” he says tightly and tries to move away again.

There’s another push against Cristiano’s chest but this time he catches Leo’s other wrist with his hand.

"Leo, please," he whispers. _I need to know. To keep my sanity. Or to destroy it completely._ _Fuck if I even know anymore_.

Cristiano swallows and moves his right hand up – left one still gripping on Leo's wrist – and brushes gently against Leo's jaw.

Leo's eyes are blown, dark brown blending with the black pupils. His hair had grown again, flopping messily on his forehead, making him look younger, softer...

It was hard to see that spark, that fire that lighted the younger man up on the pitch – it was hard to see it now when he looked so soft and small. Something to gather in your arms, something to protect.

Funny, how on the pitch the small Argentinian was one little firecracker indeed.

Cristiano takes a hold of Leo's jaw, tilting his head upward, revealing more of his carefully marked neck. Leo lets him, nostrils flaring and throat working as he swallows.

Cristiano mouth goes dry at the sight of one actual hickey. It's very small, placed right under Leo's jaw, invisible if he ducks his head enough. He lets his thumb run over the purple mark, pressing his finger against it.

Leo takes a sharp breath in and pulls his head away. Cristiano's hand hovers a second in the midair before he presses it into a fist and drops it to his side.

"Let go of me." Leo's low voice cracks in the end, but it holds its venom nevertheless, stabbing Cristiano like a knife to his side. Leo's eyes are ablaze, dark and bright, a flush riding high on his cheekbones. The fast spanish he speaks is thick with an argentinian accent.

Cristiano lets go of Leo’s wrist, feeling suddenly cold without the contact.

He notices how Leo’s hand starts shaking in the moment he lets go of it.

Leo takes one deep breath in, then looks back at Cristiano again. “What do you want from me?”

Cristiano blinks, taken aback from Leo's words. “Huh? What–”

“You know, _I can’t figure you out_ ,” Leo’s quiet but heated voice interrupts him. "First you're all hot and next second you're cold. You don't seem to want anything else than sex from me, but get jealous when I'm with someone else. You don't own me, you know. You can’t just have me when it fits for you."

Cristiano is frozen, not only by Leo’s words, but the obvious vulnerability in his features, the hurt in his eyes.

Leo’s looks down, hand brushing over his face. “I know what my problem is, I do. I give people everything I have and expect them to do the same. It was my mistake, I read the situation wrong, I thought that – thought that there was something that wasn’t.”

“Leo–,” Cristiano moves to touch the smaller man again but Leo flinches away. Cristiano tries to pretend that he isn’t hurt by that. “We can do it when you want to.”

Leo shakes his head, voice thick. “No.”

The ache in Cristiano’s chest is making it hard to breathe. He swallows, feeling desperate. "What do you want me to do?"

"Nothing,” Leo says. “Just stay away from me. Find someone else. Someone who wants the same as you do."

Cristiano hates how those words make something crumble inside him. It doesn’t matter – _it shouldn’t matter_. Hell, he can get laid whenever he wants to, he doesn’t need this. Except that he does.

“I need to get dressed,” Leo mumbles again.

This time Cristiano doesn't stop him when he pushes by.

 

+

 

 

He is wandering back to his own dressing room when a familiar voice stops him. “I think that we have something to talk about.”

Pique is in his personal space faster than he realizes, a hand grasping Cristiano’s shoulder with an iron grip.

"The next time you come a feet closer to him, that pretty nose won't be so straight anymore." Pique has a smile on his face but his blue eyes are dead cold as he speaks with a quiet voice.

Cristiano pushes the man away, but hasn’t enough fire in him to say anything back.

"I just wanted to know that we're on the same page, hombre," Pique says and slaps Cristiano’s cheek. It's too hard to be considered friendly. "Stay the fuck away from him. He doesn't need you to make him think that he isn't worth more than to be an occasional fuck."

And that's the thing, yeah.

Leo wasn’t just some occasional fuck.

 

+

 

_Breathe in._

_Breathe out._

Cristiano takes the shot, kicks the ball with all his might. It hits the post and bounces away.

He grits his teeth and bares the canines, hissing curses between them. He presses his nails even harder against his palm.

"Hey," he hears Sergio a few feet away, "Are you okay?"

"Yes." _No._

He should've made the goal, trainings or not.

He is angry. Angry at himself. Angry at the ball. At the moment, he's even angry at Sergio.

But no, not angry at Leo, even though he is the reason of all this. Reason that Cristiano keeps missing. He has found that it's impossible to be mad at the little Argentinian.

 

+

 

Cristiano looks at the small, beautifully wrapped box in his hand before he rings the bell.

A few seconds later – a lot faster than he expects – the door opens and he can't believe how hard his heart is beating.

Leo is standing in front of him, looking soft with his mussed hair and sweatpants and his too big t-shirt. And he seems honestly surprised to see Cristiano.

"What is this?" Leo asks when the box is handed to his hands. His voice is dull, quiet.

"Just open it," Cristiano says and combs his fingers through his hair. "I thought that maybe you'd like it."

Leo looks up at him with pained eyes. "Cris. What do you want?"

Cristiano is only now beginning to understand how horribly selfish person he has been. "I wanted to apologize. I've been a huge jerk, I know that."

Leo's eyes soften a little and he simply says, "Apology accepted." He grips the door, waiting for Cristiano to say anything else.

And Cristiano just has to test his luck. "Can I come in?"

The frown appears on Leo's face. He pulls a little back but not to let the other man in.

"You can't do this, Cris," he whispers, pain clear in his voice. He tries to hand the box back to Cristiano, who swallows down his own bitter disappointment and lifts his hands up.

"No, keep it. It's a gift."

Leo looks up at him, throat working as he swallows. Cristiano thinks that he can see wetness in Leo's eyes before he blinks it away. "You can't just buy me back. I'm not your property."

He hates to see Leo so upset, but he doesn't know what to say to make things okay. To make Leo believe him.

"No, no. It's nothing like that, I just wanted to talk. No funny business, I promise." Cristiano keeps his voice soft. "Please."

"I don't think that's a good idea," Leo says, one arm protectively curled around his stomach. Then he takes a sudden step forward, holding the package for Cristiano again. He doesn't look up at him anymore. "Please, take it."

Cristiano can’t swallow the lump down in his throat. "No," he says and takes a soft grip around Leo's hand, the one holding the small packet.

He touch is loose, slow, giving Leo all the time to pull away if he wants to. He doesn't, so Cristiano presses a soft kiss on Leo's knuckles. "It's a gift," he repeats.

Cristiano wants nothing more than to pull Leo close again, wrap his arms around the lithe frame, feel the cold nose pressing to the base of his throat.

"I don't want it," Leo says quietly and though Cristiano expected his words, they cut deep.

"You can throw it away if you want to, just – please, take it."

Leo drops his arm and steps back again.

He studies Cristiano for one more second. "Okay," he finally mumbles. "Thanks, I guess."

Cristiano watches the door close in front of him.

 

+

 

_And I find myself alone when each day is through_

_Yes, I admit that I’m a fool for you_

 

+

 

He can’t focus. Can’t focus on anything.

Leo doesn’t answer to his messages.

Doesn’t return his calls.

Nothing.

 

+

 

He realizes how long time there actually is in between the Clásicos.

 

+

 

 

A sudden calmness fills Cristiano when he steps to the pitch. It feels like a breathing fresh air after a long dive.

Leo’s grip is warm when they shake hands. There’s a smile on his face too, but he doesn’t look at Cristiano’s eyes. Cristiano tries to forget it.

He plays well.

Fuck, he plays _better than well_ but Barcelona has never been an easy opponent.

It’s ‘89 when he gets an amazing pass from Bale and shoots the ball to the back of the nest.

It’s not enough – it’s too little and too late – but it still feels good.

His knees are green from the grass when he gets up and sees Barcelona’s number 10, just a few feet away.

“Leo.” He is surprised that the smaller man hears him over the crowd. Leo looks at him, eyes dark and focused, hair plastered to this forehead, few sticking out wildly.

It takes only a couple to steps to get to him.

And this is it.

Maybe this is the best idea in a while. Maybe he isn't thinking at all.

He grips Leo's jaw, tilts his head upward and kisses him.

Nothing like those small kisses or brushes of the lips on the cheek.

No.

Straight on the mouth.

The audience goes wild, but the noise of it smothers down into this small buzzing sound in Cristiano’s head.

He feels like he’s floating.

Until Leo is pulled away from him and all the voices come rushing back.

Leo is standing few feet away from him, eyes wide and wet lips apart as he stares back at Cristiano. He is partially behind of Pique, who has a death grip on his arm and around his shoulders.

Fast spanish and some pieces of broken english fly around him, most of it not making any sense. Their teammates are swarming around them like bees in their nest, some of them shouting or cursing something, but most of them just staring.

Cristiano turns to leave. The game is over anyway; nothing to do anymore.

Surprisingly, he has never felt this calm before, in the eye of the storm.

He staggers but doesn't fall when somebody pushes him hard from behind.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" And even though Neymar is in the verge of yelling, Cristiano can barely hear him over the roaring of the crowd.

He turns to face the Brazilian with calm, mocking smile. It covers perfectly his shattered heart. “Does is kill you?” he asks.

Neymar looks confused.

Cristiano takes a step forward, speaks low enough that anyone else doesn’t hear him. “To know that _I_ was the one to fuck him. _I_ was the one to take him apart.” Neymar is looking at him like he’s seen a ghost. Cristiano knows that he’s being cruel but he can’t help himself. “And guess what, it wasn’t your name he moaned – it was _mine_.”

Neymar starts to shake his head, teeth gritting together.

Cristiano turns around and keeps walking.

He doesn’t hear what Neymar shouts behind him.

 

+

 

Karim catches him before he manages to leave.

“Cris? Cris, what the fuck was that? You know that it's gonna be a hell of a fight against the media."

Cristiano wants to laugh, _because when has he not fighted for what he has wanted?_

“I know,” he says.

He thanks God for the private parking area when he slips into his car and rests his against the wheel. He is just starting to realize what he has done when his phone buzzes in his pocket.

‘ _Wait_ ’, it says and Cristiano almost lets it pass by until he sees who it’s from.

He does wait.

 

+

 

Leo doesn't say anything when he slips into Cristiano’s car. He’s fresh from the shower, hair still wet and drops on his collar.

They won’t talk anything when Cristiano starts the car. Won’t talk most of the car ride, actually.

Only when they’re almost at his house, Leo asks softly, "Why did you do that?"

"Because I wanted to."

A moment of silence, then; "Why did you want to?"

Cristiano grips the steeling wheel harder. He would feel way easier at the damn press conference. Why did he want to? _Because you looked good. Because I didn't care. Because I think that I fucking love you._

Instead he says, "You know why."

_You must know by now._

“No, I don’t.”

Cristiano kills the engine.

"You're really going to make me say it, aren't you?" he murmurs.

Leo looks away, hands digging deeper into his pockets. "No, I'm not making you to say anything you don't want to. Why would I want to hear lies?" Cristiano rolls his eyes, because _seriously Leo. How can you be so blind?_

"I'll call the cab," Leo continues, moving to get off from the car but Cristiano pulls him back in his seat.

"Leo," he says quietly. "Maybe I haven’t said the 'L' word, but if you’d think with your brains and not with your feet, you’d realize that I definitely have feelings for you. I mean, I just kissed you in front of the whole stadium. In front of the whole world."

Leo cocks his head to the side, eyes wary. "Yeah. But still. You've been so hard to figure out. I'm still not sure that I know what you want."

_I’m sorry. I’m sorry because you were the one to suffer because of my stubborn heart._

"Let me be as clear as possible, then. I want you. And not just for sex. Not just for one night."

Leo's lips quirk up into a sad smile. "You want two nights then?"

Cristiano finds it all of sudden easier to breathe. "Baby, I want all of your nights and as many days I can get."

 

+

 

He leads Leo inside. Kisses him on the hallway. Pulls him gently into the kitchen and kisses him there too. Litters them on his throat and hair and on the side of his face. Saves the sweetest ones for his lips.

“I'm gonna take a shower,” he murmurs against Leo’s mouth. “And I’m gonna say _make yourself comfortable_ , because I’m assuming that you’re still here when I come back.” Leo smiles in the next kiss.

When Cristiano comes from the shower he finds Leo in the bedroom.

He is curled into a ball, looking ridiculously small on Cristiano’s huge king size bed. He is safely tugged between the white sheets, only top of his head visible.

Cristiano lifts the mess of sheets, slips under them quietly.

Leo doesn't wake up, just makes a small noise in his throat as Cristiano wraps an arm around his waist and pulls him closer.

 

+

 

Cristiano wakes up to the annoying ray of morning sun shining right to his eyes.

He lies there for a moment (ignores the fifty two messages he has on his phone) before he gently peels the covers away and lets his hands travel free on the pale skin.

He watches as Leo slowly wakes up and blinks at the harsh light pouring from the window.

He trails his dry lips against the visible lines of Leo's ribs and the hollow of his hipbones. Memorizes every inch of the warm skin.

"Leo," he whispers against his stomach.

Leo makes a sleepy “ _Mmh_ ” in his throat, head turned away from the light, eyes closed.

Cristiano smiles.

The weight he has carried in his chest for months is gone.

"I love you,” he murmurs and feels the skin under his lips rise into goosenbumps.

_And I have loved you long before I said it._

 

+

 

_Love is patient_

_Love is selfless_

_Love is kind_

_Love is jealous_

_Love is selfish_

_Love is blind_

**Author's Note:**

> I blame hpdm4ever for this one because her Leo/Cris fics are pure gold! I was head and heels into Messilla, but now Cristiano has crept into my heart. 
> 
> Thank you and sorry for any mistakes!


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